Gilded Hope
by Acteon Carolsfeld
Summary: What if there was a cure for Cybercrosis? What if the only thing Tailgate could preserve was his spark? After vorns without news, Cyclonus finds an old friend on distant shores. IDW: MTMTE/Slight AU. CycloGate


_Disclaimer_: I do not own the characters of MTMTE, nor do I own the cover photo taken from a panel in the comic.

**Warning**: SPOILERS for MTMTE Issue 17; taking of liberties on characterization based on context; implied sticky

Pairing: Cyclonus/Tailgate

Time Terms:

Deca – Week

Cycle – Day

Joor – Hour

Breem – Minute

Klik – Second

* * *

**gild·ed **(adjective)

1. covered or highlighted with gold or something of a golden color.

2. **having a pleasing or showy appearance that conceals something ****of ****little ****worth.**

* * *

"_I'm not afraid of let-downs, Cyclonus."_

* * *

The shuttle touched down, stirring clouds of pale blue sand. The port was nowhere near the ocean, but the wind was strong at night, sweeping up handfuls of shimmering dust that glittered under the moons. The transport hummed as it rolled forward, slowing near the station. It connected to the disembark walkway with a loud "clunk", and the engines powered down with a whirr, bringing within auditory range the popping of heated metal.

The air rippled.

Port workers arrived in tiny, solar-powered carts, and sprayed the vehicle down, jets of water creating sparkling mists under the sun.

The door hissed open. Cyclonus strode out of the ship. He paused in the walkway, and looked out the window, optics dimmed and hooded under the edge of his helm.

Only one sun had risen. The cycle was young.

Entering central facilities, the Cybertronian looked around, taking note of all the different species traversing in the lobby. Most of them were smaller than he was, but the ceiling was high, enough to be comfortable for the jet-former. Giving the arrival deck a scan, the mech spotted what he was looking for. He waded through the crowd, and stopped before an organic holding a sign, on which his designation was written, in terrible Cybertronian calligraphy.

"Mister Cyclonus?" The organic spoke in words that skittered, peering up at the tall bot.

Cyclonus nodded.

His guide lowered the sign, giving him a once-over. "Is this all you brought?" He waved toward the purple mech's suitcase, a thin, rectangular slab little bigger than a standard-sized datapad.

Cyclonus tossed it a flicker of a glance.

"It is all I need." He said, and his reception party merely nodded, before turning to gesture at one of the gates behind him.

"This way, please." His voice wobbled, the way all organics' did when speaking in a mechanical language. The fleshling folded up the sign, and pattered ahead, pausing every once in a while to make sure his guest followed.

Cyclonus did, at a slow, even pace.

His steps reached further than the small peds of his guide.

* * *

"…and here is the floral sanctuary. All of the most extravagant of species have been planted here, for study and viewing purposes. On our left is a greenery garden, one of the biggest in the galaxy. Ambassador Shardingale has once coined it 'one of the greatest wonders of the cosmos'…"

As his guide prattled on, Cyclonus watched the scenery pass. The windows of the transport were empty. A warm breeze ruffled the curtains, which brushed against the Cybertronian's plating in tickling caresses. The trip was long, as the vehicle was slow. Had the purple mech been allowed to transform, he would've been at his destination half a joor ago.

"Are you sure you don't want to stop at any of the sights, Mister Cyclonus?"

The jet-former shuttered his optics, and turned toward his guide.

"Affirmative," He said, "I wish to settle in for the cycle."

* * *

Cyclonus's destination was far from the popular resorts. It was over the hill, which meant a trudging, bumpy ride along the winding roads as the cart groaned and struggled under the weight of a Transformer. Cyclonus had offered to walk instead, but his guide insisted against it, saying something or another about the impression of bad service. Instead, they inched up the slope. Thank Primus there was downhill afterwards, or else the ex-militant was sure he would have leapt into jet-mode and blasted off, regulations be damned.

* * *

The ocean here was quiet, without the uproarious shrieks of excited tourists. There were only a few off-worlders on the beach, basking under the warm bake of the suns, the second of which had risen halfway through Cyclonus's stuttering ride. Noon had passed. The air was thick with heat. From the trees came a reverberating, buzzing noise. Some form of native life, the Cybertronian had been told, just before he'd dismissed his guide and made his way toward the hotel.

The owner of the hotel was a stout mechanoid. Cyclonus knew his design was based on the dominant organics from a planet called Earth because the robot yawned even when he didn't have the need to, blinking and slouched with an elbow on the reception table. There was a fan on the ceiling, perhaps another incorporation from the aforementioned planet. It did little to ease the steady simmer in the air, making a soft whirr as it rotated on its post.

"One room. Booked under Cybertronian Fleet Corps," The jet-former said as he stopped before the counter.

The mechanoid looked up, and nodded, turning toward the console before tapping the information in.

"Ahh, Cyclonus, correct?" He asked, words much more articulate than the organic guide's had been.

"Affirmative." Cyclonus replied.

His choice of wording seemed to amuse the hotel owner, who sent him a bright wink of a glance.

"'_Affirmative'_," He repeated with a grin. "I haven't used that word in _ages_. Heh."

Cyclonus saw no reason to respond. He simply nodded as he was handed his keycard, and headed for the lift to his room.

The room wasn't much. It was as bare as he preferred, with a view of the forest instead of the ocean.

Cyclonus put down his suitcase, and sat on the berth, which sagged under his weight.

For a moment, he felt lost.

He almost could not remember what he was here to do.

* * *

The Shoreside Rehabilitation and Care Center was located right by the beach, a mere five breem walk from the jet-former's hotel. Despite its remote location and misleading designation, it was one of the most prestigious medical facilities in the galaxy, specializing in terminal diseases for both mechanical _and_ organic life-forms. Patients that required lengthy hospitalization were referred here, to combat their illnesses, to heal. Staying here was pricy, which was why Cyclonus had little hope, as he knew that the one he was looking for had practically no financial backing to speak of.

The glass doors slid open upon his arrival, and a cool waft of air greeted the derma of his faceplate. There was a Cybertronian seated behind the reception counter. Femme-class. Probably a two-wheeler. The bot wore a friendly smile, fingers laced and optics alert. "Welcome to Shoreside Rehabilitation and Care Center," He said, "How may I help you today?"

Cyclonus walked up to the desk. "I'm looking for someone, a mech from the planet Cybertron." He answered. "Designation: Tailgate. Function: waste disposal, fourth class." Taking out a small datapad from subspace, the jet-former activated a hologram of the little bot. "Cybercrosis, stage five. He should've been…in emergency-stasis when he arrived."

"Alright. Just give me a moment, please. T-a-i-l-g-a-t-e…" The femme murmured as he typed into the console. "…How _is_ Cybertron, by the way?" He asked. "The last time I was there, the war had just broken out."

"It's fine." Cyclonus replied. "It's healing." He turned off his datapad, and returned it to subspace. "A central government is forming. Factions have been annulled. There is a new prime, young, inexperienced, but has learned to listen. Energon production is on an increase. Bots are less likely to fight on a full tank."

"Ahh," The receptionist nodded, a small smile on his lips. "That's good to know." He mumbled. "Maybe it's time to go home…"

Cyclonus stayed silent, waiting. There was a "beep" from the console, and his spark leapt inside its chamber, alongside the brief flash of his optics.

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid you're at the wrong place." Just like that, the flicker of hope died. "There's no Cybertronian by that designation here, and no one who matches that paintjob."

Cyclonus felt his jaws tighten. He looked down, and gave his helm a curt nod. "Very well. Thank you." He said, averting his gaze. He bid the femme farewell, and left the care-center, spark chamber weighing tons.

The doors slid open. His field of vision burst into light. The suns were bright enough to blind, splashing his optical sensors with colour. The purple mech squinted while his settings adjusted, and walked down the stairs, three at a time. He stood at the edge of the street, empty of transports, dotted with people. He did not feel like sulking in his hotel, so he ran a deep cycle of air, and made his way to the beach, ped-falls becoming muffled as he stepped onto the cushiony blanket of the pale blue sand.

The ocean here held a golden hue. It sparkled under the sun, like waves of glitter, touching the sky at the horizon with wisps of cloud.

Cyclonus paused, halfway to the waves. He heaved a sigh, and looked out at the endless body of water, ever flowing, ever lapping.

A shrill cry. The mech startled.

His weapons system almost whirred awake, a response honed after countless vorns of battle.

However, he managed to stop it in time, cancelling its activation. He turned in the direction of the sound, and found a young organic racing to her creators, clutched in her hand a large shell.

Just an excited young.

The jet-former's optics dimmed. It was way too hot to be out here under the suns.

His gaze swept across the beach, over the treeline. A flash of white, and he paused, doubling back in curiosity. There was a small mech hiding under the shade, sitting atop a log. His tiny, stubby legs swayed, blue visor pointed at the ocean, lips mouthing to the low hum of a song.

Cyclonus froze.

His world stopped.

There, sitting on a fallen tree, was Tailgate, sporting a new layer of paint and faceplate bared.

For a long moment, Cyclonus stood there, staring at the little bot.

Tailgate did not seem to notice at all, peds continuing to dangle and flick at leisure as he hummed an alien melody. He appeared to be thinking about something, visor holding that faraway glow whenever his attention had bounced away from the present. A few kliks later, his helm began to bob too, whole frame swaying to the slow beat of the song.

The white of his plating was a creamy sheen that glowed, creating a halo around his body.

Cyclonus shuttered his optics.

He swallowed.

His arms trembled as he moved, joints having stuck. Gears ground against each other as he forced his limbs into motion, one laborious step after the next, toward the visored bot sitting at the edge of the beach.

The temperature was cooler under the shade. Cyclonus kept his gaze averted. He stopped before the log, turned, and sat down, one space away from the little bot. He looked ahead, stubborn, silent, as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on top of his knees. His whole frame was strung, hands clenched so hard that his digits ached, laced before him in a gesture of seeming nonchalance.

He looked ahead, not daring to turn toward his company.

Tailgate sang a few phrases more. He stopped, the melody cut, and the playful kicks of his peds stilled, pausing in mid-air before they slowly lowered until they rested against the bark of the log. Cyclonus could feel the visor on him, a scorch that was enough to blister the paint on his derma. The shade provided shelter from the suns, but the jet-former's internal temperature continued to rise, climbing higher the longer his ventilation held in silence.

Silence…

Then—

"Hi."

One word.

One greeting

It speared the ex-militant, deep in the centermost chill of his spark chamber.

Cyclonus could feel the onset of a tremour prickle over his frame. His fingers tightened further around each other, until they hurt, joints straining. The voice, even without the slight muffle of the facemask, was familiar down to the last rasp of vocalizer. It was just as soft, curious, unsure as he remembered, the inquiring lilt of a timid spark.

There was a burn, one that rose from the deepest pit of his core. It choked his speech, and strangled his fuel pump, until it was an audible thud inside his chassis. Cyclonus kept his vision forward, stubborn, silent. The bite on his jaw-joints hardened, until it grew into a heady throb, like a migraine that swelled, a haze of ache over his processors.

"…Hello?"

The voice came again, like a whisper of current – one that could puff to nothing in an instance.

A touch on his arm, and the jet-former jumped, intakes a hissing gasp as he swung around, facing his company with a startled gape on his faceplate.

Tailgate looked up at him, worry brightening his visor.

He had shuffled closer on the log, helm tilted as he peered at the taller mech, digits resting on hard, purple plating.

"Are you alright?" He asked. "Your optics are leaking."

Cyclonus looked down at the smaller bot.

There was a gurgle from his vocalizer. The blur in his vision spilled, liquid that splattered as he yanked Tailgate into his arms, the warm press of derma against the weathered armour of his body.

His plating clattered. The shudder in his frame rippled through the mech sheltered against his chassis. Intakes reactivating in a roar, he buried his faceplate against the other's neck, the stuttering whine of his engine vibrating between them. He tried to speak, but only splutters fell through. The burn worsened, until he could no longer see through the film of coolant streaming down the smaller bot's shoulder, trails of tears that marred the even shimmer of his polish.

Cyclonus offlined his optics, a sob gritting through the clenched bite of his dentae.

Small arms, parted in surprise, slowly wrapped around his back, and stroked over scars from an old war.

A stifled cry, and the jet-former leaned into the one in his arms, clutching, desperate.

Tailgate was here.

He'd found him.

This was no dream, no illusion.

The solidity of the frame within his arms was real, as was the sensation of tiny palms rubbing the plating between his shoulders.

Cyclonus hid his faceplate, ashamed.

This was not how he'd wanted their reunion to be.

But then again, he had never admitted to himself, never taken into account the depth of how much he needed this sensation again.

This sensation…of smooth, pliable metal against him, shielding a spark that had, once, almost, been taken away from him.

In some ways, he thought.

It had.

* * *

:_…Hello?_:

:_Rodimus._:

:_Cyclonus? Why're you on _this_ line? I gave you my personal comm.._:

:_I called to let you know that I will be extending my leave._:

:_…Whoa. Hold on. Wait. Does this mean—_:

:_I found him._:

:_…Holy Primus on a-_:

:_He doesn't remember me._:

:_…_:

:_But he is happy here. I intend to stay only to make sure he will be alright before I return for Cybertron._:

:_What? No! I mean, you really don't _have_ to—_:

:_That is all. Please pass on my regards to Ultra Magnus. Cyclonus, out._:

:-_Hey mech wait just a_—:

Click.

Cyclonus ended the call.

He stood in the middle of his hotel room, staring at the wall holding an image-still of the planet's ocean.

The irony was not lost on the purple mech, but he merely turned away, and headed to the washrack for a quick shower.

As cold water sprayed down his frame, the jet-former thought, arms spread and pressed against the slick, tiled wall. He couldn't believe how out-of-conduct he'd behaved in front of Tailgate, weeping like a sentimental new spark before he could even blurt out an introduction. Shame was a bitter churn inside his spark chamber, and the ex-militant grimaced, vents in a huffing growl. He had embarrassed himself, but that did not matter in the large scheme of things. He would face the consequences of his actions, even if said consequences were strictly self-inflicted.

Tailgate, surprisingly, had not asked any questions when the larger mech had finally calmed down to reasonable coherency. The little bot only quirked his helm, and looked at him, taking out a polishing cloth to dab away the lingering tears.

The memory soured the jet-former's tank. With a shove, he strode out of the washrack, and slapped the water switch off. Grabbing a towel along the way, he wiped his faceplate, and gave his frame a careless rub. There were still droplets of water budding on his plating when he left his room, but he paid them no mind, boarding the elevator lift before walking across the lobby.

The suns were just as bright as the cycle before. A wave of heat beat against his plating as soon as he strode through the hotel's front doors, and the chill from the shower dissipated, moisture evaporating as the purple mech descended the stairs. Cyclonus crossed the street, and made his way toward the beach. He did not stall to watch the ocean this time, heading toward the log instead, where he knew Tailgate waited, perhaps humming another song popular on the planet.

Tailgate wasn't humming a song.

He was reading, perking up when he heard the larger mech approach.

"Hello." He smiled, visor brightening as he subspaced his datapad.

Cyclonus gave him a brisk nod.

"May I join you?" He asked, back straight and shoulders squared. The little bot blinked. He seemed to bite back a laugh, but he nodded, scooting aside to allow the jet-former more room.

Cyclonus sat down, and silence permeated, made worse by the stiffness in his posture.

Tailgate glanced at him, fiddling with his fingers. "Hey!" His visor flashed, "I don't think I've introduced myself yet! I'm Little Legs. What's your name?"

Cyclonus felt his optics widen by a slight degree. He turned his helm, and stared at his company, lips loose.

"…Little…Legs…?" He echoed in a low rumble, a brow-ridge jerking.

"Yep!" Tailgate didn't seem to notice his reaction at all, lips spreading into a wide grin. "Because my legs are little. See?" He kicked his peds. "I didn't have a name when I woke up at the care-center, so I gave myself one, and it's stuck ever since." He blinked. "Oh, by the way, I stay at the care-center. I had Cybercrosis, but it's mostly gone now. Don't worry. Not contagious. I'm on my last treatment cycle already, so I should be able to leave soon, though I'm not sure where to go exactly."

"…Oh." Cyclonus intoned. He didn't know what to say.

Not that it mattered. Tailgate was just as chatty as he remembered.

"I've been told I'm a Cybertronian. The femme at the reception desk is from Cybertron too, and he's been telling me all about it. I think I might go there for a visit after I'm discharged, to see my benefactor. I apparently crash-landed here with a will. Do Cybertronians have graves? I would love to pay my respect to Ratchet. He saved my life, after all."

And just like that, all of Cyclonus's questions were answered.

"Under normal circumstances, we do not have graves." The jet-former answered. "However, for those who have made irreplaceable contributions, there are monuments in their stead." He explained, turning to watch the waves. "Ratchet's has been the most visited for vorns." He added, a quiet sigh leaving his vents. He would have to pay a visit as well. There was much he owed to the medic for doing what he did.

A breeze swept by. The trees rustled.

The reverberating buzz stopped when the leaves were disturbed, but they quickly resumed, a droning quiver in the air that made Tailgate raise his helm and look about, as though to locate the life-forms.

"I can never find them, the tiny creatures." He said. "They're so hard to catch that the locals have to watch the traps for decas." He lowered his helm, and stared out at the ocean as well. "They're a delicacy here, you know, on this planet. Not that I can ingest any, but I chewed on one anyways. It was gross."

Cyclonus hummed in reply, and tossed a glance at the trees.

This was familiar, the nonstop chatter from the little bot.

If Tailgate weren't red at some parts and missing his facemask, it would've been…just like before, only without the risk of death and the threat of unknown hanging over them.

"…Hey, you never told me your name!" Tailgate's visor widened, and he looked at the larger mech, sitting a little higher.

"Cyclonus." The jet-former answered, keeping his gaze on the ocean.

"Cyclonus…wow…That's a really cool name." The little bot leaned back on the log, hands propping on the bark. "I wish I had a cool name like that." He said, swinging his legs while they dangled.

The ex-militant felt his jaws clench.

"…Tailgate." He whispered.

"Huh?" The smaller mech turned toward him. His leg swinging paused, and his optics were wide, curious, outlines almost visible through the bright, smooth curve of his visor.

Cyclonus looked down.

"Nothing." He said, studying the loose lace of his fingers.

* * *

The log was empty.

Tailgate was not here.

Cyclonus stared at the log, frozen, optics agape.

His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his fists trembled, straight by his side while a sizzling chill crawled and tickled along the length of his backstrut.

Was this a joke?

The jet-former could not compute.

The sand was indeed beneath his peds, and the wind was indeed hot and moist with the scent of the ocean.

The splash of the waves was still there, as were the calls of avian organics that lived by the sea.

But Tailgate…was not here.

…_Why_, was he not here.

"…Cyclonus!"

A faraway call.

"Cyclonus!"

The tall mech jolted, helm snapping in the direction of the sound.

Tailgate was waving at him, ped-deep in the water. He waved, and ran toward him, kicking up globs of wet sand. He did not apologize for wandering from their designated meeting spot. Cyclonus did not press for an excuse. He simply heaved a deep cycle of air, relieved, as his expression eased.

He'd even felt the onset of a smile, the edges of his optics pinching slightly.

However, the urge quickly died as the little bot tripped, and fell faceplate flat into watery sand.

* * *

Cyclonus sat on the beach, soaking up the fading warmth of the sun, the last sun, disappearing under the horizon. The sky was aflame with colour, clouds saturated in reds and yellows, while the ocean steadily rose, golden waves glowing and flickering under the wash of light.

Tailgate was right beside him, wiggling his peds into the sand. There was a small smile on his lips, which widened as he looked up at the view. He let out a happy sigh, and flopped back, lying still for a few moments before shuffling back onto his elbows.

"See? Didn't I tell you the ocean would turn orange?" The little bot pointed far into the distance, where the sun's ebbing rays lit up the water. "What a view, right? I come here to watch the sunset every cycle. I'm not sure why, but it always fascinates me."

It fascinated many. Cyclonus thought.

Cybertron did not orbit a star.

"It's so nice here, isn't it." Tailgate sat up, and slid his hands under the sand. "I heard that sand elsewhere gets caught in your gears, but not here. All you'd need is a good soak, and it just falls right out, just like that." He wormed his fingers between the fine particles, and scooped up a handful before letting it slip through his digits. "The organics complain about it sometimes. They don't seem to like it." The wind swept up the pale blue stream. It shimmered with a dash of pink. "_I_ like it, though, but I keep that to myself. I don't think organics like it very much when you imply that they're squishier, even if you don't mean it."

Cyclonus was pretty sure failures in building sand castles had nothing to do with organics being squishy, but he kept it to himself, merely nodding along.

The waves splashed against the beach, an even tempo that was salve on audials familiar with the shrieks of war. The strumming of the ocean was a song, one without words, that had whispered for centuries, a constant that soothed deep aches and the stinging of scars. Its rhythm did not change. It had no need to. The breeze was its accompaniment, brushing through the trees, playful, as it roused the hum of the forest in a soft murmur.

Tailgate leaned back, and rested on his elbows once more. From his peripheral, Cyclonus could catch him staring, helm tilted and visor curious.

"…Those scars, on your faceplate." The little bot chirped up. "What happened?"

_A scowl to hide the stinging of coolant under his optics, sneering from the mirror, and a raised, trembling fist._

Cyclonus kept his gaze on the ocean.

"A bad cycle." He said.

Tailgate blinked.

"Why haven't you repaired them?"

_The scraping dig of his claws, the puckering slice of his derma, within which beads of energon oozed._

The jet-former kept silent, for a moment.

His gaze lowered, vision a flicker.

"…It hasn't gotten better." He answered, and the weight returned, made worse by the oblivious concern behind the blue-tinted visor.

* * *

Cyclonus could not recharge.

Being so close, within such easy reach with the little bot, it took his toll, baiting the jet-former with temptation he had not felt for vorns, since the cycle he'd come back to his hab suite on the _Lost Light_ to find it empty.

His hab suite…

…which had been dark the first time Cyclonus guided Tailgate onto his back, and kissed the pair of soft lips hidden behind a facemask.

Light had spilled through the windows in streams then. A mere halo that poured and spread over smooth, thin plating, from the scatter of shimmering sand across the cosmos.

Star clouds.

Ribbons of gradient.

Tailgate had writhed, thighs easily parting by the gentle press of Cyclonus's palms. The pinpoints of the jet-former's claws ghosted over the derma, a mere whisper of touch, but it left hairs of scratches regardless, ones that barely bit beyond the polish.

Cyclonus had looked down at his lover, whose lips had been parted, vents hushed in short, stuttering breaths. Within the militant's core, a shiver stirred, and his derma had prickled, a quiver that danced over his backstrut. A long gasp hissed through his intakes, which stalled as air filled his system. Desire was a burn racing through the boiling within his fuel lines, but this…

…this burst of life, within his chassis.

It was different.

Cyclonus knew, more aware than he had ever been, as he felt the swell of light and colour – of stars – within his spark chamber, that Tailgate…

Little Tailgate, misplaced in time.

A tiny, brittle unit of a mech.

Had _overcome_ him.

Completely.

It shouldn't have happened, he'd told himself.

But when has Cyclonus ever gotten what he wanted?

As charge swept over the squirming, heated frame, rousing a cry, and the shuddering of hips at the peak of pleasure, Cyclonus watched.

Tailgate babbled. "C-Cyclonus—…Oh Primus Cyclonus—!" He repeated over and over again, visor flashing and lips apart, cheeks flushed.

Cyclonus lifted his hand, wet with lubricant, and allowed the little bot to clutch onto him. Tailgate was shaking, and his optics had been so bright, piercing through the spec of his visor. He pulled the large hand close to him, and nuzzled against its palm. Fluids smeared on his cheekplate, but he did not care, vision flickering offline as a smile spread over his lips.

The sight had rendered the warrior weak, a tremour that rubbled his very foundation.

"…_Cyclonus_…"

Tailgate's visor brightened again. It lifted with a tilt of his helm as stream of light washed over the berth.

"Look, Cyclonus! Look!" The little bot pointed at the window, at the universe, an ocean of black with a sprinkling of stars. "Isn't it beautiful?"

Cyclonus looked down at his company. He had to drag his gaze away from the tantalizing heave of the small chassis.

"It's the same view." He stated.

"No it isn't." Tailgate huffed a little, and shuffled onto his knees, turning to face the window. "The stars, the constellations. They changed." His voice held awe, saturating the exclamation.

Cyclonus watched him instead.

"They might not even be there anymore." He said.

Tailgate stilled. He seemed to be thinking about it. He frowned, and turned, the stars a pale glow around the outline of his helm.

"That doesn't change the fact that they're worth a look." There was almost a whine, petulant. "Or else they'd just be—…they'd just be dots, in the dark."

They stared at each other.

Cyclonus did not have the spark to tell the little bot that yes, they really were just dots in the dark.

Silence stretched. Tailgate sighed. A smile tilted his lips, and he must have decided to drop the subject, because he settled onto his back once more, and parted his curvy little thighs.

"Cyclonus…" He nibbled on his lips, the gape of his visor open, trusting. "I want you inside me." He hushed.

Cyclonus froze. He had been satisfied, with giving. He did not expect anything in return.

Before he could push away, small hands clasped around his, as they knew what he was about to do.

"Please?" The small mech pulled on his hand. "You can fit, I promise. I can stretch." He said. "I'm not as fragile as you think, you know. I can take a few dents." He blinked, and then smiled. "C'mon. It's just 'facing." The visor seemed to wink. "I'll live."

The offer had been tempting, so tempting.

His spark had already given in, as it could not refuse Tailgate. It no longer could.

However, Cyclonus had not listened.

He never listened.

He's realized that now, lying on an unfamiliar berth in a hotel room on a faraway planet, that he's never actually _listened_ to Tailgate, no matter how explicit his partner had made clear of his needs.

Just like when the news had been dropped, the "_stupid news_", which had ripped a tear in the jet-former's being.

"Make peace with the world," He had said. "Face death head-on." He had said.

Oh for _Primus's sakes_—

A grimace.

He couldn't even face Tailgate when the little bot needed him the most, so what right did he have to say that?

Say _any_ of that?

…Strained breaths.

A hand over his faceplate.

He gritted his dentae, and gasped to calm the sear of his spark.

The splatter of transfluid had begun to cool on his plating. The tangy aroma of overload hung in the room, like a mist, an intangible film of guilt. With heels of his palms digging into the hollows of his optics, Cyclonus trembled, a strangled groan wheezing from his vocalizer. This was disgusting. What he had done was disgusting. Of course Tailgate had left, strapped in an escape pod. It was a mercy on Primus's part that the little bot had forgotten about him. It was for the best, if all the jet-former knew how to do was to be selfish.

Hands falling from his faceplate, the mech onlined his vision, and stared up at the ceiling.

This planet wasn't doing anything for him, nothing like what it had generously done for Tailgate.

Tailgate had a chance for another life, a chance to begin anew.

No baggage from the past. Free from all previous obligations.

The golden ocean. The warm bake of the suns.

The playful breeze. The slip of fine sand between his fingers.

They had cleansed him, given him peace:

A calm that nothing, and no one, not Cybertron, not Cyclonus, has ever given him.

He had hope for a future.

He was going to be fine.

He was strong.

Cyclonus knew.

Tailgate did not _need_ a phantom from the past refusing to let go.

* * *

Cyclonus waited for the hotel owner. The mechanoid typed into the console, and gave him fleeting glances. Unlike last time, the robot did not speak, back straight instead of slouching in his chair. He merely nodded at the Cybertronian with a smile before giving him a standard farewell, to which the jet-former replied with a curt nod, turning and striding out the door without a single look back.

The suitcase was heavy. It dragged, like a boulder, until an almost physical ache could be felt in the ex-militant's shoulder.

Cyclonus ignored its weight. He did not even feel the sharp sting of sunlight against his optical receptors before they could recalibrate.

He stood just outside the front doors of the hotel, a dip in his brow ridges. With a sigh, his helm lowered, and the disciplined rigidity of his posture fell, creating a slump in his shoulders. Jaws tight and optics dim, he walked down the stairs, each step a trek on its own. Both peds planted at the bottom, he looked out across the street, at the ocean, once more, before he was to meet with his guide and leave for the shuttle port.

He was content. He really was.

This was his decision, and he will grow to accept it, to take responsibility.

Ped-falls, gaining in volume.

A scuffling rhythm that he knew only too well.

He turned in its direction, optics widening, and spotted an all too familiar frame racing toward him.

The frantic gape of the visor. The stuttering pace of short, small legs.

An arm rose, in a wave, and suddenly, a surge of heat choked him, an eruption of scalding burn that seized the jet-former by the spark and _squeezed_.

Hope.

He pivoted on his peds, knees weak, lips falling apart.

Hope.

He felt, the burst of stars within his chassis.

Tailgate ran toward him, the gleam below his visor speaking of desperation that could mean only one thing.

Perhaps…

Just_ perhaps_…

Tailgate has finally _remembered_—

"-Wait! Cyclonus! Before you go, there's something I have to ask you!"

Just like that, it shattered.

The stabbing bite of ice stole his voice, and he thought, really, he should've known.

After all, he'd told Tailgate the same thing before, about hope.

A lie that flirts with expectations.

"Wait!" Tailgate slowed down as he approached the taller mech. His cooling fans whirred at top speed, and heat rolled off from his plating in visible waves. He stopped before the jet-former, and panted, hands propped up on his bent knees. The exertion must've been hard on his recovering systems. It stole his breath for a good, long breem.

Cyclonus waited. He had given up, but he could wait. Tailgate deserved at least that much.

"I…I just…" The little bot finally straightened, with no little push of will. "I just have some questions…that I didn't know if I should ask." He looked up, optics wide behind the blue visor. "I didn't know if I should ask, because I thought—…I thought it'd push you away, that it would upset you." He said, intakes hitching in cycles of air. "But then I realized…if I didn't ask, I might never know. I might not get another chance!" He stepped forward, and his hands reached, fingers stretched for Cyclonus's own.

The larger mech startled. His joints froze. He scraped back a step, about to tug his hands away, but the shorter bot latched on, quicker than Cyclonus remembered him being.

"You _knew_ me, didn't you." Tailgate leaned in, gaze steeled in determination. "You _knew_ me, before, when I started getting sick." He waited for Cyclonus to speak, but the jet-former couldn't vocalize, couldn't articulate. The ex-militant had stilled, had been stunned. He didn't know what to think, facing an ex-lover he was certain had moved on without him.

"…I—…I can't—…" Tailgate averted his optics for a split moment, helm in a shake. "I can't remember anything. At all." His digits tightened around Cyclonus's hands. "Everything before waking up at the care-center is just a big void of black, and I…I have no starting point. Nothing. And no one has ever come looking for me." He paused, the joints of his small fingers straining.

"…But you…" He whispered, visor flickering up, "You came. You knew. You _knew_ me." He tugged on the large hands, and Cyclonus had no choice but to bend down, propelled by the force behind the gesture.

"No one would hug someone like you did me if you didn't know who I was, Cyclonus." The little bot said, leaning, onto the tips of his peds. "Please." He pleaded. "_Please_.

"Don't give me up.

"_Don't give me up_—"

"-**Listen to me**."

Cyclonus had knelt down in front of his partner, hands firm around the wheels of his shoulders.

"Never. Hope." He'd spat out, the corners of his lips quivering from the tight bite of his jaw-joints. "Hope is a _lie_." He'd articulated, because he had to make sure, to make absolute certain, that Tailgate knew, as otherwise would bring yet more suffering to him, to the both of them.

Tailgate's visor had lowered. He'd thought, for a long moment, for once not satisfied to blurt out whichever words came first.

He then looked up.

Straight into the jet-former's optics.

"No." He said, helm in a slight shake. "To not hope, I can't do that."

He reached, with shaky fingers, around the hard set of the larger mech's jaws.

"…I'm not afraid of let-downs, Cyclonus." He had smiled, through the tears laden in his voice, and Cyclonus—

-could not believe…

that he had _forgotten_.

About Tailgate.

Before Tailgate had lost even an ounce of recognition toward him.

Shock stole all strength from the larger mech's knees. He fell, into a crouch, hands tightening around his Tailgate's fingers. Tailgate kept silent, though he must have been confused. Regardless, he scooted forward, and rested his forehelm against the kneeling jet-former's.

"…Will you tell me," He asked, words hushed, "who I was to you?"

Cyclonus offlined his optics.

He shook his helm.

"…No." He said, voice raw. "Not 'was'."

He reached for his suitcase, and pressed its handle into the little bot's palms.

"…_Am_." He looked up, and clicked open the case, its cover falling open onto his forearm.

Inside it were shattered pieces of a vial, embedded within a crystal platter.

Beside it sat another, intact.

Glowing with innermost energon.

* * *

**Notes: **6390 words written and edited in two days.

It's good to be back.

A review would be lovely. As always, I would love to know what you think. :)

Thank you. -heart-


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